


In these bodies we will live

by crimsonkitty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Character Death Fix, Gen, M/M, Phoenixes, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel, slash overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonkitty/pseuds/crimsonkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frontierland fix it fic. When push comes to shove, Dean makes a different decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In these bodies we will live

**Author's Note:**

> Fix it fic for the episode "Frontierland" (6x18). I think it might have been the first time I was ever angry at the writers of the show instead of the characters. So I wrote fic about it! 
> 
> Sam/Dean and Dean/Finch if you squint really really hard. Thanks to ryuutchi for the beta. Title from 'Awake My Soul' by Mumford & Sons.

_Sunrise, Wyoming  
March 5,1861_

Going through a glass window dressed as a cowboy isn’t nearly as much fun as it looks in the movies, Dean decides, brushing glass off his hat and wincing at the splinters currently embedded in his ass. Actually it isn’t as much fun, period. Cowboy gear or no. He thought the awesome factor of the hat and the boots would’ve taken a little of the sting out of it. No such luck. Turns out it hurts every bit as much as when you do it in the 21st century. Fuckers.

Even worse, he’s currently got a pissed off over-sized bird shooting at him with a .44 colt and this is so not how things were supposed to go. The phoenix wasn’t supposed to have a life with things he cared about. Dean wasn’t supposed to learn the thing’s name. He wasn’t supposed to feel sorry for him. And now here he is. No gun, no brother, and no idea of how to get out of this without killing anyone he doesn’t want to.

And where the fuck is Sam? If he doesn’t get here soon, Dean is going to spend the rest of their trip playing hide and seek with Big Bird in cowboy boots.

BAM. The paneling next to Dean’s head explodes in a shower of rubble and he scolds himself for not paying more attention. Won’t do to get himself killed before he’s even born. He’s not sure Cas would bring him back this time.

Quickly, he ducks down a path between the dusty houses, sneaking across empty porches and under laundry lines. Gotta stall. Gotta make time. Gotta wait ‘til Sammy gets here.

“Dean!”

Speak of the devil.

Wait. No. Bad phrasing. Horrible phrasing. Dean pretends he never even thought it and frantically waves Sam over to his position against the wall.

“Dude, finally! Get the fuck over here before you get yourself shot.”

Sam hurries over, nearly tripping over the stairs in the process and Dean can’t help rolling his eyes as Sam’s shoulder presses into his, their backs against the wall.

“Big Foot, much?”

Sam shoots him a look that says, ‘Really? Now?’ and Dean holds up his hands in surrender.

His brother starts to lean forward and Dean quickly pushes him back up against the wall with an arm. “What’s happening?”

“Finch is out there and he ain’t happy,” Dean answers, keeping his arm where it’s at and glancing around the corner, hoping not to get shot in the face for his trouble. 

“Not happy? What’d you do?” Sam asks, perplexed, pushing at Dean’s arm with all the petulance of a six-year-old told not to cross the street by himself.

Dean is insulted. “What did I do? Why’s it always gotta be something I did?” His voice is pitched high with annoyance.

Sam shoots an epic look of disbelief at him and Dean hopes, spitefully, that his face sticks that way.

He sticks his tongue out in answer. “Fine. I _may_ have told him about our ingenious plan to trap and kill him. He didn’t take it very well. Go figure”

“... _why_ would you do that?” Sam is shaking his head like sometimes he can’t believe Dean is his brother. He does that a lot.

Dean whacks him on the shoulder. “Shut up! I was stalling. Waiting for your late ass to get back while you went out for a pizza or what the fuck ever,” he snaps. “You got the Colt?”

“Yeah. Here, take it.” Sam reaches into his jacket and pulls out the gun, pushing the butt of it into Dean’s chest. Dean smiles at the familiar weight in his hand, though the grooves of 150 years and a couple thousand miles are missing.

There’s a nudge at his shoulder and Sam says worriedly, “Man, we gotta hurry up. We’re almost out of time.” He nods at the clock which reads seven to noon, little clicks drawing them closer and closer.

Dean hesitates. “Yeah, about that...”

Sam pauses. Says, “Yeah?” drawing it out like he’s dreading the answer.

“We’re gonna have to think of something else,” Dean answers, still keeping his eyes on the clock. Fuck, that’s not a lot of time. 

“What? Why?” Sam’s forehead scrunches up in confusion and Dean makes note of the wrinkles he’s going to get there some day.

“‘Cause the guy hasn’t actually done anything wrong, Sam. It wouldn’t be right just killing him. He’s got a life here,” Dean tries to explain.

“Nothing wrong?” Sam stares at him incredulously. “He killed his wife! He killed the judge! How is that not doing anything wrong?”

“He also killed the sheriff and the deputy,” Dean supplies helpfully. Sam raises his eyebrows in a vague upwards ‘and this is helping his case _how_ ’ motion. Dean always thought Sam had really expressive eyebrows.

He hurries to explain further. “But that was after they raped and murdered his wife and then _framed_ him for it.”

Sam’s eyes go wide. “What? Really?” A tinge of alarm fills his voice.

Dean shoots him an ‘I know, right?’ look and says, “Yeah. I can’t say I exactly blame the guy for wanting revenge. I figure he’s had a rough enough time as it is without a couple of hunters trying to kill him for his ashes.”

“Well that’s... considerate of you.” Sam sounds surprised in that annoying little brother sort of way. Dean makes a face at him.

“So basically,” Sam says slowly, “We need the ashes and have no way of getting them without using the colt. Which we aren’t going to do. Because you’ve decided he’s a nice monster. Oh, and he’s still trying to kill you because he thinks you’re still trying to kill _him_.”

Dean doesn’t even bother acknowledging the sarcasm. “Got it in one.”

Sam takes a deep breath before suggesting, “Well, we could just ask?”

Dean sends him a look full of incredulity. “What, while he’s shooting at us? Yeah, sure. Put your weapon down, Mr. Phoenix! I know we said we were going to kill you but I promise we were just pretending!”

The eyebrows are glaring at him now. “You got any better ideas, dumb ass?”

And that’s how Dean finds himself standing across from Finch at three minutes to noon, desperately trying to reason with a guy who may not have any reason left in him.

“Finch!” he calls out, never talking his eyes off that itchy trigger finger. “Whatever happened here, as far as we’re concerned, that's none of our business and you were well within your right. But, man, we gotta talk.”

Finch lets out a bitter laugh. “ _Talk_? I thought you wanted to kill me. Shoot me down like a dog. Like a monster. You are a _hunter_ after all.” He spits out the word like poison, accent softening the edges of every word into something deadly.

“Only if you make us,” Sam says, quiet rumble at Dean’s back a comfort that he’s doing the right thing. Some days are harder to tell than others.

If it were possible, Finch’s face grows darker, eyebrows coming together in a fit of rage and grief. His hand grips the butt of his gun. Dean jerks back, stepping in front of Sam as he watches Finch’s fingers twitch.

“Don’t do it, Finch!” Sam calls to him, worry in his voice. “Just hear us out. Please.”

“What are you gonna do? Kill me?” He chokes out a noise just this side of human, eyes full of smoke and warning signs.

“Sammy,” Dean says quietly. Sam turns to him while Dean stares straight ahead. “Just... go stand over there.”

“Dean...”

Dean interrupts him. “Please. I know what I’m doing.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam looking at him, testing the waters. Making sure. And then a sharp nod as he moves back into the shadow of the buildings.

Just him and Finch now. Staring down across an empty road, breeze rustling their coats. Hats tipped to obscure the sun.

“One last chance, Finch,” Dean cautions.

Finch spits at the ground and doesn’t answer.

The shadows are still. Sweat drips down Dean’s forehead and the duster is suddenly too stuffy and close. The clock chimes. Between one breath and the next, they’ve both fired.

Dean sees Finch kneeling on the ground, clutching at his shoulder and Dean’s not quite sure what just happened. He does a quick scan, making sure he’s not bleeding copious amounts of blood from his own body, certain that he’s gotta be hit and he’s just not feeling it yet. But when the adrenaline slows a few seconds later, leaving nothing but exhaustion, he gives himself the okay. Check, check, and check.

“Dean?” Sam calls over. Dean holds up a hand in reassurance.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He’s ninety percent sure he actually means it. Which, given his record, counts as a good day.

He makes his way over to the wounded Finch, hearing the crunch of gravel as Sam walks up behind him. Finch is breathing hard, smoking gun still clenched in the hand against his arm. He manages to grind out, “What the hell was that?” before hissing in pain. Dean crouches down next to him, wincing in sympathy at the hole through Finch’s shoulder.

“ _That_ was a bullet from my magic gun. And trust me, it’s way tougher than it sounds. It can kill anything. Even a phoenix.” He watches a shudder go through Finch’s body at the word, likes that he hit a nerve. “You gonna listen now? ‘Cause I really don’t wanna shoot you again.”

“Magic gun? Are you fuckin’ kidding me?.” Finch huffs a laugh, more defeated than manic this time. “Well that just figures, don’t it. _Son of a bitch_.” He holds his arm closer to his side, and won’t meet Dean’s eyes, hiding under the brim of his hat. “Do I got a choice here?”

Dean sighs. “No. Not really.”

“Sorry,” Sam adds quietly and sounds like he genuinely means it. Dean chances a look back to find Sam crouching along with him. Catches his eye as Sam smiles that tiny ‘thanks for doing the right thing’ smile and puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean lets it stay with a warmth in his stomach.

Finch is staring at the ground, biting his lip from pain or grief or just plain old exhaustion, Dean doesn’t know. Doesn’t know Finch well enough to hazard a guess.

“What do you want?” Finch asks, subdued and tired.

“We need the ashes of a phoenix. Any way we can do that without killing you?” Dean asks and Finch looks up. He’s surprised. Wasn’t expecting that. Dean just smirks at him.

“You want _what_?”

Dean repeats himself. “We need your ashes because-”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. _Fuck_.” He’s still chewing on that bottom lip. “There is. There’s a way. But I’d have to-”

But then the bells are chiming noon. Finch startles and doesn’t finish his sentence. Dean can feel the pull, a tap against his forehead right behind his eyes. “Cas! NO!” But it’s useless.

He lunges forward and manages to grab a handful of Finch’s coat before the whisper of feathers envelopes them all. The next thing he knows, he’s staring past Finch’s eyes into Bobby’s study. Sam’s hand is still gripping his shoulder, thumb curled against his neck under the collar.

“Holy shit,” Dean says between breaths in the pause that follows, taking in the startled look on Finch’s face. “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” Bobby says with a sort of bewildered grunt, “You only sent back _two_ people. And I think I would’ve remembered adopting a third.” 

Cas grunts right back at him. “My aim was a little off. So sue me.”

TV is turning Cas into a sullen teenager, Dean thinks somewhere in the back of his mind. 

That’s when Finch decides it’s a good idea to pass out in Dean’s arms.

Dean tries to adjust his grip and yells at the others. “Fucking Christ! Help me out here. He’s hurt.”

Bobby hurries over to lift some of Finch’s weight off of Dean while Sam grabs at his legs. They manage to get him turned over onto his back and there’s blood all over Dean’s shirt and jacket.

“Who the hell is he?” Bobby grunts, lifting with the others and depositing Finch on the couch.

“His name is Elias Finch,” Sam says in answer, a sad sort of look on his face. Bobby waits for him to continue but when nothing else comes, makes an aggravated ‘and?’ sort of motion with his hands.

Dean sighs. “And he’s our phoenix.”

Bobby gives him a sharp look. “Phoenix? Are you shittin’ me, boy? Jesus Christ, you two. What’ve you gone and done this time?”

Dean just waves him off. “We’ll explain later, okay? Just help me bandage him up.” 

Finch stays unconscious for the next few hours and they manage to pull the bullet out, slug of it jammed in the meat of his shoulder. They sew him up and leave him asleep on the couch while they move into the kitchen, speaking in low voices about what the hell they’re going to do next. Cas stays in the living room, staring down at the bruised and bloodied phoenix, carefully blank expression on his face.

“He said there was a way of getting the ashes without having to execute him,” Sam tells Bobby, eyes looking through the doorway. 

“He tell you what that was?” Bobby asks, humming to himself, probably thinking back through that infinite library in his mind.

Dean shakes his head. “No. We got yanked back before we could get any answers.”

Bobby only sighs. “Well, he should keep for now. I got no clue on how fast a phoenix can heal, but he ain’t bleeding out anymore.”

Cas walks into the kitchen at that moment, interrupting their conversation. “If that’s all, I have matters to attend to. I’ll be back soon. Call me when you have the ashes.” And just like that, he’s gone.

Dean nods at the place where Cas was standing. “How’s he doing?”

Bobby sighs again, sounding weary. “Not too good. Showed up here broken and bleeding all over the place. Took a few seconds to draw his angel mojo there in the kitchen then keeled over.” He shrugs. “Damn near scared me into an early grave.”

Sam looks up with concern in his eyes. “What happened?”

“He says he was betrayed,” Bobby answers, sounding uncomfortable. “By that stuck up broad we met yesterday.”

“Rachel? The one who defended him against us?” Sam looks confused.

Bobby nods his head. “That’d be the one. He said she was working with Raphael so he had to kill her.”

“Wow. Shit.” They all take a moment, thinking about the implications of betrayal amongst the ranks of heaven before Bobby breaks the silence.

“In the mean time, what do we do about him?” He asks, nodding at Finch.

Dean just shakes his head. “Don’t think there’s anything else we can do.”

“So what. We just wait until he wakes up? We’re not exactly light on time here.” And Dean knows the idea of any sort of creature inside Bobby’s house for any extended period of time makes the older hunter twitchy.

“Looks like,” Sam says with a shrug, keeping his concerns to himself.

Dean looks down at the figure on the couch, still dressed in his spurs, a bloody bandage covering his chest, and hopes he hasn’t just made a huge mistake.

The sun has started to set, turning the landscape gold and bouncing off the metal of broken down cars, when Finch wakes up. It’s Bobby’s turn on watch duty and he shouts down the hall to Sam and Dean that, “Sleeping Beauty is wakin’ up. You might want to get in here.”

They rush into the room and at the sound of so many voices at once, Finch jerks up, panic in every one of his movements. There’s a red spot forming in the center of the bandages, and he lets out a small cry, cradling his arm against his side.

Bobby puts a hand on his good shoulder, trying to keep him calm. “Hold on, son. You’re fine. A little banged up but we patched you up real good, I promise.” Finch’s eyes stop darting around the room in a haze before focusing in on Bobby. “We ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

“Anymore than we already did,” Dean says out of the corner of his mouth. Sam stomps on his foot.

Finch licks at his bottom lip, chapped and wind-bitten. “Where am I?” His voice is groggy.

Bobby pulls his hand away once he’s sure Finch isn’t going to hurt himself anymore. “My name is Bobby Singer and this is my home. And this ain’t gonna be easy to hear, kid, but you’re 150 years in the future.”

Finch doesn’t have much to say to that, studying the details of the room around him, and Dean pulls some spare clothes out of his duffel so the guy doesn’t have to walk around in bloody tatters. He figures it’s the least he can do when he’s the reason Finch has those ugly black lines in his shoulder.

He and Sam decide it best to wait outside on the porch while he changes, letting the man have some privacy though Bobby insists on staying to look after his patient. “I ain’t having you keel over on me when I’ve just fixed you up. I get enough from those two dunderheads as it is.”

Ten minutes later, Dean and his brother are sitting in the beat up lawn chairs on the front porch, beers in hand and talking about nothing much at all, when the door creaks open. Finch steps out, looking strange in Dean's ratty jeans and soft flannel, gun tucked between belt and skin. He’s got his hat in his hands.

A beat of silence stretches long, screen door tapping against the paneling in a heavy echo. It goes on long enough that Dean is beginning to wonder if one of them should hold out the metaphorical olive branch or whatever when Finch makes the first move.

“You let me keep my gun. Why?” His brow is furrowed, hands gripping the brim of his hat too tight.

Dean blinks at him. “Were you planning on shooting at me again?”

“No,” Finch says after a slow pause.

Dean shrugs. “Well, there we are then.”

Another pause. Sam and Dean continue to look at each other with eyebrows raised. Finch continues to not look at anything.

Dean breaks it this time. “How’s the arm?”

Finch makes a fist with his injured side. “Better.” Belatedly. “Thank you.”

“For shootin’ you?” Dean asks, eyebrows raising in confusion. 

Finch nods down at his shoulder. “For patchin’ me up.”

Dean waves him off. “Naw, for the arm you should be thankin’ Bobby. He’s got a steadier hand than the both of us combined.”

“But still.” Finch hesitates and then looks him straight in the eye. “Thank you.”

Dean is caught off guard. Will never admit that he jumped a little at the eye contact. “...You’re welcome.” And attempts a smile around the warmth in his chest. 

Finch turns to actually take in his surroundings, taking note of the beat up cars and metal scraps around the yard. The angle of the sun and how there’s nothing around for miles. “Who are you?” He finally asks. “You’re hunters and yet you didn’t kill me when you had the chance. I don’t even know your names. You’re obviously not Sheriff Eastwood.”

Sam snorts at that and Dean gives him a swift kick to the ankle. Sam ignores him. “I’m Sam. The one who shot you is Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh, thanks.”

“Well you _did_.” The gigantic bastard is laughing at him, smirk curling up around the corner of his mouth.

Dean lets out a noise of protest. “Only a little bit! He’ll be just peachy in no time.” He turns to Finch. “Won’t you.”

Finch actually cracks a smile. “If it hurts, I usually heal fast. I’ve never been shot by a magic gun before, though.”

“See?” Dean makes a face at his brother and Sam only rolls his eyes.

The smile fades from Finch’s face though, and he curls the brim of his hat tighter under his palms. “Why am I here? Why didn’t you just kill me?”

Dean looks at him, steady and unwavering. “We told you. We needed your ashes but we didn’t wanna just shoot you when you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Finch looks out around the junkyard again. “You said I was in the future?” His accent still something straight out of a movie, words coming out the top of his mouth.

Dean huffs a laugh. “Funny ol’ world, innit?”

Finch still looks unsure. “But how?”

“Fuckin angels, man.” Dean shoots a mocking look at the sky, half-tempted to flip ‘em the bird.

Finch looks down at the ground, pondering this. “Really? Huh.” He doesn’t look surprised.

“What, you’ve met angels before?” Sam asks.

Finch shakes his head. “No. But I’ve met stranger.” There are years in his eyes. Dean believes him.

Clearing his throat, Dean decides to get back to the real matter at hand. “So. You told us there was a way of getting your ashes without killing you.”

“There is.” Finch’s face is still angled down, deep in thought. “I could change back.”

“Change back?” Sam leans forward, interested.

“To my true form,” Finch explains. “Phoenix. Firebird. Whatever you call my kind around here.”

Sam looks impressed. “That’s something you can just do?”

Finch nods his head. “It is. I’d... need a few days though.” He rolls his shoulder and winces. “Full strength or else it won’t work.”

Sam and Dean look at each other in silent conversation.

“Okay. We can give you that.”

And so they have a phoenix roommate for the next couple of days. Dean sometimes wonders when his life turned into the supernatural version of the Real World. Bobby only nods when they tell him, not upset like Dean thought he would be at the idea of a non-Cas creature staying under his roof.

Except nearly everything in the house has iron in it because it’s Bobby. And maybe that explains the lack of concern. The door handles and some of the chairs and the silverware. Some of the tools and the rusty heaps outside. It’s a problem from day one and Finch quickly becomes careful about touching things. His fingers still get singed like he’s static electricity done up in human/bird form. He walks around with them almost constantly in his mouth, something Dean always thought of as a very human trait. .

The first time Finch grabs the door handle, none of them give thought to what it might be made out of. It’s the fucking door handle. But Finch still jumps back hissing, almost knocking Dean over, before Dean has a chance to steady him. There’s a smell of burnt flesh in the air.

“Woah there, Joaquin!” Hand on Finch’s hip and shoulder, pushing him back upright as Finch closes his fist tight and taps it against his chin.

“My name’s not Joaquin,” he informs Dean, tight. Tiny thread of pain coming out in his voice.

Dean closes his eyes for a moment. “No, I know. He’s... an actor. Look, it’s not important,” he assures Finch and pats him on the shoulder. “Just be careful. Lots of iron in this house ‘cause Bobby’s a paranoid bastard.”

Dean grabs the handle and pulls the wooden door open roughly, holding it open for Finch. Finch walks inside with a sort of bemused smile on his face and Dean follows suit, shaking his head.

Sometimes, after one of these incidents, Dean will catch Finch rubbing his wrists where the burn marks have faded. Like a soldier remembering an old wound. He is uncomfortably reminded of iron shackles and a hanging rope and just what exactly brought Finch to the point of getting his fingers burnt on everyday household items.

In response, Finch spends a lot of time out on the porch where there are fewer things to bump into. He’ll quietly ask Bobby if he can borrow a book or two for a few hours to which Bobby always tells him, “Sure. So long as you put ‘em back where you found ‘em.”

Sometimes one of them will join him. Sam might bring his laptop outside or Bobby might bring out another book that compliments the one Finch is already reading. Dean’s usually out there the most often, cracking a beer and enjoying summertime in the hills.

Sam and Dean are both out there tonight, taking a break from pouring over old texts for so long their eyes hurt. Bobby decided it was a good time for dinner and they can hear him chopping vegetables in the kitchen through the window. Sam and Dean will do the dishes later. It’s how it’s been since they were small.

It’s a companionable silence and Dean decides to test the waters a little bit. “So how’s your shoulder feeling tonight?”

Finch rolls his shoulder with only the slightest wince. “Good. Better. Bobby knows his craft.”

“Yeah. He does. But then he’s had lots of practice.” Dean takes a sip from the bottle in his hand. “Sorry again, about the whole shooting you, threatening to kill you thing. We’re a little on the desperate side if you couldn’t tell. But in my defense, you were gonna shoot me too.”

Finch laughs. “Fair is fair. Your aim was just better than mine.”

“Yeah.” Dean ponders that for a moment. “Yeah, that’s been bugging me. How on earth did you miss? I was sure I was gutshot for a moment there.”

“Stray sunbeam must have caught my eye.” Finch shrugs. “I’m not used to missin’.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, well I’m glad you did.”

Crickets have already started their night time lullabies and the stars are coming out in batches of a thousand as the light fades from the sky.

“Hey, Finch?” Sam looks down at the bottle in his hand, fingers tapping against the label. His face is serious. “Can I ask you something?”

Finch nods to show he’s listening.

Sam bites at his bottom lip before asking, “What’s it like?”

Finch puts a fist against his mouth, not answering immediately. His silver ring rests above his lip, something Dean hasn’t seen him take off, not in the four days he’s been here. He thinks Finch is gathering his words and now Dean is leaning forward, because he wants to hear the answer to this too.

“We are born in flight,” Finch begins, gaze focused somewhere far off into the distance, like the old time storytellers that are harder to find with each generation. “Feathers and fire and magic. Nothing but air and free fall.” A breath stutters out of him and he continues.

“But the ground turns us to stone. Forces upon us a human appearance the moment our feet touch it. As long as our feet and our hearts stay firmly on the ground, we remain in our human appearance without wings but still the fires of the sky inside us. Nowhere to go but off a cliff, falling falling. Forgetting to fly from the feel of it. A phoenix can go their entire lifetime without once touching earth.”

He pauses for a moment, deep breaths with his eyes closed, and Dean can only watch as Finch’s knuckles turn white from clutching at his knees.

“I touched earth for her.”

There are no tears in his eyes but he twists that ring around his finger over and over, like a nervous habit. Spinning it until he can rewind the clock. When he finally pulls his hand away, there are black scorch marks in places along the silver.

“I’ve seen countless humans going about their daily lives,” he tells them. “I’ve seen bloody wars and the fall of empires. Weeping children sitting on thrones of gold. Seen the world change until it was unrecognizable and the turn of it still moving. But in the end, it was the fall of her hair over her shoulder that humbled me.”

A small, honest smile breaks across his face. “She always liked to tell me I had stars in my eyes.”

“Did she know?” Sam asks and Dean knows he’s thinking about Jess (and, God, doesn’t that just feel like twenty lifetimes ago).

Finch’s smile turns less tragic and more tender. More fond. “Yeah. Yeah, she knew. When I landed, she saw me change. It was the first time. I didn’t even know what I looked like. Could barely stand on my own two feet and the poor girl had to half carry me back to her home, a strange old man who’d fallen out of the sky.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam tells him, and Dean sees only sadness for Finch in his face. He lets out a breath.

Finch nods his acknowledgement. “But when I saw him there with her...”

And Dean knows the look and the voice of a man about to break in two. But he doesn’t know what happens when that man is a phoenix and can literally burn you from the inside. He wonders if Finch is burning too.

“He got away. I let him get away. Because she was bleedin’ and she was human and I wanted to give her every bit of life left in me.” His voice stumbles at the end but he continues on like he hadn’t noticed.

“Shouldn’t have been surprised when he turned out to be deputy to the sheriff. Shouldn’t have been surprised when I was suddenly in irons and they were takin’ her away from me. But I was. They sat me down and I looked that sheriff straight in the eye and told him what had transpired there that day. Was called a liar and a murderer for my troubles.” The edges of the chair are starting to singe, crumbling away.

“And then I realized that I was the outsider and ain’t no one comin’ to my rescue at the expense of one of their own. Not even the sheriff.” He stares out past them at the junkyard and the Dakota hills beyond. Flames flickering in his eyes, ready to burn the world down. “Oh, he knew what his man had done. He knew.”

Finch clears his throat and the embers die to something painful and real. The chair stops smoking. “And he and the judge were closer than flies to a horse. They figured they could pin it on the out of towner. The stranger. Instead of giving one of their own what he deserved.”

Sam and Dean both nod their heads in tandem. They know what it means to be the stranger in a bad situation. They’ve come to expect it, in most cases. 

Finch doesn’t notice, too lost in his own story. “But they strapped me up and I had to play dead while they buried me alive.” 

He turns to look both of them in the eye, deep and dark. “Do you know what it’s like? Bein’ trapped down there? Bein’ surrounded by earth and dust and bone? Unable to feel the wind on my face or even imagine what it would be like beneath my feathers?”

Sam shakes his head because he doesn’t know. Sam doesn’t remember being in his own coffin after Dean buried him. And Dean is eternally grateful for that, with everything else that Sam will have to live with forever, because Dean does know and it’s something he won’t ever be able to forget no matter how many days and nights and new memories he puts between him and that.

He remembers the dirt in his mouth and how he couldn’t breathe and everything was so cold and hot at the same time. Like he might still be dead and there was nothing on the other side except more of this. Crushing him and burying him.

Finch’s words feel like dirt in his lungs. “In that moment, I wanted to die. Wanted to lay down like a human being and turn to ash because she wasn’t waiting for me on the other side. But I climbed out. And I knew I would burn out their very souls for what they had done.”

Finch is quiet for the rest of the night, seemingly done out on words and too lost in his memories of the life he used to lead. They let him be, quietly working in Bobby’s library, each with their own thoughts about the things to come and the things they’ve left behind.

But the next day Finch comes to them, movements slow and voice soft as he tells them tomorrow. He’ll be ready tomorrow.

“You sure about this?” Dean asks him that evening, passing a glass of Bobby’s best whiskey over the space between them. Finch had spit out the beer they’d tried to give him his first full day in the year 2011. Said it tasted like piss.

Finch smiles small at him from around the edge of the glass. “Thought you needed this.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean tells him. “I’m not gonna lie to you. This could possibly save the world and all our sorry asses. But I’m still gonna ask again: You sure?”

Finch lets out a small laugh and the glance he gives Dean has warmth in it. “I’m sure, Dean. Nothin’ left for me here. I want to feel this new wind. Know what it tastes like.” He closes his eyes and leans back into the warm night air. A small hum fills the space between them Dean thinks he looks like a king on top of his throne.

“I’m sorry,” Dean bursts out. Finch looks up at him, startled. The music stops. “That you’re alone,” Dean tries to explain. “Maybe we can ask Cas to send you back or...” He fades off, embarrassed.

Finch only shakes his head. “I think I’d rather be alone than back there.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah. I know what you mean.” He winces at the sadness in his own voice. Nothing like a pity party to really get this party started.

“You still have Sam,” Finch tells him, knocking a hand against his knee.

“I do.” That one truth Dean has clung to since he was five-years-old. And lately he’s almost sure he believes it. 

He looks at the line of Finch’s shoulders, drawn up tight and closed. So different and yet so familiar. Heavy with a world he doesn’t belong to.

_And that’s always been enough._

The next morning Dean comes outside to see Bobby has laid down a tarp. He snorts at the practicality of it all.

“What? You got any better ideas?” Bobby glares at him. Dean only holds up his hands and doesn’t say anything.

He holds the door open for Finch one last time, getting a smile for his effort. Finch with his hat on and his spurs clinking on the wood. Still in Dean’s blue jeans and flannel. Grey eyes facing forward. Dean feels like he’s walking someone to the firing line.

Finch doesn’t hesitate in walking down the steps and into the yard. He stops when he reaches Bobby, though, offering his hand. Bobby takes it.

“Bobby. Thank you for your hospitality. You’ve been mighty kind to me.” The drawl is more present than ever.

Bobby nods at him and pats him on the shoulder with real fondness. “You take care of yourself, son.”

Finch nods back and turns to Sam. “Sam, be good to yourself.”

“You too,” Sam tells him, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Last, he turns back to where Dean is standing, eyes crinkling. “Dean.”

Dean scuffs a boot in the dirt and tries not to look at him. “So this is the sappy goodbye, huh?”

Finch laughs. “Of course.” He takes the hat off his head and places it in Dean’s hands. “I hope I’ll see you again one day. We can test our skills again.”

Dean lets the grin reach his eyes. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

They shake hands and Dean can feel the pulse point beneath his finger tips. tap tap. tap tap. Dean counts to ten. When he misses on the eleventh, Finch smiles.

Finch lets go of his hand and Dean clenches his fist tight, watching him go. He wishes it weren’t an old feeling.

Finch turns his back to them and slowly walks onto the tarp laid out on the ground. Bright electric blue and wet, probably Bobby giving it a hose down after fifteen years in the same shed.

He pulls the outer flannel off and the t-shirt over his head, pulling down his jeans and toeing off the boots until all his clothes are laid off to the side in a small pile. There’s complete silence. Even the wind stops blowing, chimes still.

“So how does this work exactly? Is there a spell or something?” Bobby asks, voice loud and echoing the emptiness. His eyes dart around his yard, waiting for the metaphorical fist of God.

Finch’s face lifts to the sky and his eyes close. “No.”

That’s when Dean notices the bright light shining at Finch’s center, growing outwards incrementally until it covers him from head to toe. The three of them throw up their arms to shield their eyes, it’s so impossibly bright. They can taste the electricity in the air. Like lightning during a storm. Somewhere, a light bulb shatters.

The ground is shaking, small tremors that shake the dust off cars. Finch, in the center of it all, hidden behind the white light that is growing brighter until Dean feels like it could flay them alive.

All at once, everything explodes with a roar. Flaming embers fall from the sky like rain, landing just short of their feet and Dean falls backwards, away from the heat.

The world is burning around them, like they’re down in the pit except Dean isn’t afraid when the ash touches his skin and doesn’t burn him. He stays down there on the ground, braced on his elbow as the light begins to fade.

There are wings rising up above their heads. Wings that couldn’t belong to any creature that still exists in this day and age. It’s bigger than anything any of them have ever seen. Beautiful gold and red with greens and blues meshing to form a whole new color.

It glides it’s way down, until it’s just in front of Dean, landing on his outstretched arm. Great golden talons that don’t even pierce through Dean’s jacket, encircle his entire forearm. He stares in shock, not even sure if he’s close to processing what he’s witnessing in front of him.

“Finch?” The bird stares, tilting its head as if asking a question.

“Elias?” A soft cuckaw emanates from its chest and Dean takes that as an affirmative.

It weighs next to nothing on Dean’s arm, despite its unbelievable size, and his knees shake as he rises up off the ground. The tail feathers spill in every direction, the tips of them purple and blue and curling. Beak long and straight that glints with every turn of its head. Its eyes gleam with an animal intelligence, fire burning in their centers. 

“Hey,” Dean chuckles, shaky. “So uh... what now?”

The wings rise and they’re even bigger up close, unfolding in a flood of light. Dean jerks his head back as the phoenix takes into the sky with one broad flap of its feathers. Sunbeams reflect with each stroke, cracks of thunder over their heads until they’re all forced to put their hands over their ears. Flying higher and higher until it disappears into the sun itself.

The chimes are tingling somewhere in the background, fierce and strong. There’s a storm coming.

“Shit,” Dean hears Bobby mutter quietly in the background. “God damn.”

Dean can’t help but agree with the sentiment.

The air is cool and the ground still when Dean finally turns away from the sky. The images are already fading as he stands and dusts the dirt from his jeans. God damn, indeed. 

He gives his head a shake and looks over at the others to find Sam staring at him. And damn. There are those eyebrows again.

“What?” Dean snaps, his fingers still tingling and the air in his lungs clean. Maybe it feels a little like hope.

Sam smirks at him. “‘You’d like that?’” he quotes in that little brother voice that makes Dean want to smack him. He hates when Sam gets smug.

He rolls his eyes and pushes at Sam’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

Sam just looks at him and doesn’t even try to dodge. Asshole.

Now he thinks he has Dean right where he wants him and all Dean can do is roll his eyes. “Shut _up_! You know I wouldn’t...” He lets the pause hang between them.

Sam just continues looking up at him from under his eyelashes. Smiles that knowing smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

Dean pushes past him towards the fading embers scattered across Bobby’s yard. Can’t help the happiness that tugs at his mouth, uncomplicated.

“Come on. We got work to do.”


End file.
